


How fever'd is the man

by perfectlight



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Fields of Trenzalore, Gen, Trenzalore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:59:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlight/pseuds/perfectlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An abundance of shadows in absence of light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How fever'd is the man

**Author's Note:**

> _How fever’d is the man, who cannot look  
>  Upon his mortal days with temperate blood, _

* * *

 

_I think, once we’re gone_

 

* * *

  

After his Clara died, the Doctor went searching for the rest of her. Maybe it was cheating, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

 

On Earth, she was always dead. Long dead. It was almost enough to make him give up on Earth. 

 

* * *

  

_you won’t be coming back here for a while_

 

* * *

  

There were other planets, other places. Forests of glass and mountains of ice. Skies made of fire and spindly-legged species who built houses in tree branches. Planets caught in the scarlet arms of exploding stars or forsaken by the stars that collapsed into themselves. 

 

A planet whose sky always stormed, whose surface was littered with carved rock. A planet of monuments and memories that whispered from the stone. 

 

The Doctor was tempted. 

 

* * *

  

_and you might be alone_

 

* * *

  

He wasn’t sure if loneliness spun the shadows or if he cast them himself. 

 

He clasped at the universe and hated it for being finite. Entropy screamed, but would not let him break it.

 

The Claras kept dying. Before he came, the moment he arrived, or swept off in the wake of the danger trailing behind him – they never made it into the TARDIS. Through his hands on her console, every time he ran away, the TARDIS would grasp and rattle his bones, tell him in tantrums and false landings and blurring lights: _you’re killing her, killing them all_. 

 

* * *

 

_which you should never be_

 

* * *

 

Universes froze. Creations burned. Clara fell with them, each and every one of her.

 

Like light through his fingertips.

 

He went to Trenzalore. 

 

Lying in wait, the battle sprang up around him – clashes and fire and screams – and the Doctor did not try to stop it. When the pain comes, he does not counter it with gold.

 

The world goes dark. They all do.

 

* * *

 

_Don’t be alone, Doctor_.

 

* * *

  

Everything mourns.

**Author's Note:**

> 'whoa there are a million Claras what can I do with this idea' has taken over my brain. As has John Keats.


End file.
